


Kiss me twice

by rosemarysfiction



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-19 23:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17610869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosemarysfiction/pseuds/rosemarysfiction
Summary: He lifts his head and looks up to the sky. The cold air sucked in his lungs is prickling, comes out in little white clouds. It snows. It must be cold, but he is used to the cold, knows much worse. He is the asset, he does not bother registering these things. His handlers take care of him. But Hydra is weak now, almost destroyed and on the ground. He doesn't worry. He isn’t supposed to worry. If you cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Things exactly as they were. He has been prepared for such events.Go into hiding. Wait for instructions. Wait for a new mission.So that is what he does, even though things have changed since then. Since he saw the man on the bridge. Since he’s speared his life and he himself had saved him in turn. He cannot say what had changed exactly, cannot pinpoint the cause of the discomfort irradiating from the pit of his stomach. He just knows that he will not return to Hydra.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys!  
> this is the first thing I have written that I have posted ever, so it would really mean a lot to me if you leave a comment and tell me what you think:)  
> I do have a plan how the story is supposed to evolve, I'm just not sure yet how many chapters there will be.  
> Also, I'm not a native English speaker, so if you see something that is wrong or just sounds totally weird please tell me and I will fix it.  
> So yeah that's it, I just hope you will have as much fun reading as I had writing it :)

He lifts his head and looks up to the sky. The cold air sucked in his lungs is prickling, comes out in little white clouds. It snows. It must be cold, but he is used to the cold, knows much worse. He is the asset, he does not bother registering these things. His handlers take care of him. But Hydra is weak now, almost destroyed and on the ground. He doesn't worry. He isn’t supposed to worry. If you cut off one head, two more shall take its place. Things exactly as they were. He has been prepared for such events.

Go into hiding. Wait for instructions. Wait for a new mission.

So that is what he does, even though things have changed since then. Since he saw the man on the bridge. Since he’s speared his life and he himself had saved him in turn. He cannot say what had changed exactly, cannot pinpoint the cause of the discomfort irradiating from the pit of his stomach. He just knows that he will not return to Hydra.

After the crash he goes looking for a safe house. He knows he should not take the closest one because his last mission, his failed mission, the Captain will come looking for him. He knows he will. And he cannot risk running into the Hydra agents that seethe through the streets of Washington D.C.. He chooses the one in New York. Something inside him twitches uncomfortably, but he ignores it.

He is the asset, he follows instructions, he is the asset, he follows orders. He will follow his own this time, he will carry through.

He is the asset, pain follows in his wake. When he has to kill a man on the street, because he is a witness, he does so without hesitation. Things exactly as they were.

He spends three weeks in the save house cellar without interruption. The house is old and in ruins, mold growing in its internal scaffolding, making it weak and creaking. Adolescents have come and sprayed graffiti on the walls. The anarchy sign decorates the chipping paint, one very explicit drawing of Adam Sandler and slogans. One catches his eye and he cannot tell why. It is just as sloppy and hastily written down as all the others, the fear of getting caught whilst doing something forbidden apparent in the blurry letters. But he stands in front of it for a while, searching his mind for a connection, comes up empty. He lies down in front of the wall, repeating the words over and over in his head until they don’t make sense anymore and then until they do again. _“Afraid of defiling the love which fills my soul”._ He waits and waits and waits for an epiphany, for the why but it does not come to him. And with every passing hour he feels an increasing itch under his skin. He does not know what to do now. He doesn’t have orders, he needs orders. He takes care of his body, his wounds. The majority heals by itself very fast, but he will be left with scars. His handlers don’t care for him to wear scars. _Didn’t._ He is the shiny tin soldier that can wipe out an army in a few hours, the world’s most dangerous assassin. The soldier is a valuable asset. He is not allowed to wear scars. These, he will wear like a badge.

He stays in the basement. Things exactly as they were.

On the second day, things change tough. Again. Images twitch before his eyes, flicker away like little flames going out. So much information crowds his brain, suddenly and he doesn’t know what to do with all of it. He remembers blood and death and cruelty. Men crying, women begging, children dead. He misses the chair and the cold sometimes, always. The dark nothingness that, he understands now, protected him. He is just short of going back to his handlers and beg for forgiveness, beg them to take it all away again when he remembers his mother. When he remembers the smell of perfume and red, silky hair. And when he remembers the Captain. He remembers Steve.

Those memories don’t make it better, on the contrary. They make it much worse. Things he does not understand take a hold of him, make him sick. The little food he does eat he throws up again.

He was a person once, he realizes, one that has been loved and mourned after it was gone. He knows he isn’t that person anymore, he knows that his family would not recognize him now, knows they could not forgive him.

And just like they did, does he mourn the person he was at one point in time, mourns the loss and if he was capable of crying, he would. But he is not, he is the asset, the soldier and he will never be a whole person again. But he will bear the pain. That he can do.

He wants to forget, to run away, of course he does, but he knows he can’t go back to Hydra. He owes it to the people he killed and to his mother and _Steve_ to stop. He broke once already, if he can help himself, he will not break again.

He lies on the ground for the fourth week now, only getting up so often to take care of his body's needs. He is still aimlessly thinking, looking at the wall with the words when he hears footsteps. As he makes his way to the stairs, he hears a woman's soft voice. He can recognise his handlers anytime, this is not one of them. But he does know her. Slowly he inches closer on the stone staircase, hiding in the shadows. Now he can hear a man's voice and he knows him too. "-not the time."

It's his failed mission. It's the Captain. He has found him. Something in the back of his mind flutters, something important, but it disappears again quickly. The woman is the black widow. He can see her shadow inching closer. What is he supposed to do? He is the asset. He has a mission, he follows orders. His last mission failed. He could still kill the Captain. The parameters simply have changed. But he can't do it with the widow here. She is Red Room trained as he is, she is strong and fast. He doesn’t want to anyway. He does not know what to do. He needs orders. He could follow them when they are gone. To do what? Or he can go with them and avoid the risk of getting noticed by the black widow. He could let them catch him, let them think they’ve defeated him. To do what? He could run. Yes. He will, he is the asset. He has missions, he takes orders.

Silently, like a deadly animal, he makes his way back down to the basement, that has served him as a cave until now.

He grabs the few things he can take with him, the weapons and his back pack that he took from the witness he’d killed.

He braces himself. Both of them, the Widow and the Captain are capable of fighting and fast.

He himself is weakened and his arm is heavier than ever, tearing at the joint of his shoulder.

The only thing he has going for him is the element of surprise. He has to move now, quick.

With all the strength he has left in his muscles he sprints, up the stairs to the first floor.

He catches a quick glance of Steve, then bolts out of the already shattered window, shards tearing through his uniform.

And he runs.

* * *

He is the asset. He has a mission, he follows orders. Pain follows in his wake.

When he travels to another save house and jumps on trains passing by, steals cars and goes south, there are witnesses. So many witnesses and every time he crosses one and another one and another, another, another, he twitches.

He is like one of the four knights of the apocalypse, a reaper, an omen of death. He brings destruction upon everyone he crosses paths with. But this time he cannot kill them.

The order: _no casualties. keep a low profile_ stands hard like a wall against the order: _kill. no witnesses_.

Every time he moves to stab someone, to slit someone’s throat, erase every memory that exists of him from the face of the earth, he holds himself back.

He cannot allow himself to leave a trail. Steve will try to follow him. He can’t find him. So he simply pulls the hood of his raincoat he stole deeper into his face and hopes that in combination with the long hair and beard it will disguise him sufficiently. He should steal glasses too, just to be sure.

He is being paranoid, he knows.

He can make himself invisible in the streets without any concealment at all, but he _feels_ anxious which sets him off even more because he doesn’t feel. He just doesn’t.

He is the asset. He has a mission, he follows orders. He does not feel.

He is the asset, pain follows in his wake.

And yet, he doesn’t hurt anyone. Even when he lives in the save house in Louisiana for a few days, he doesn’t kill the woman that lives down the street. He knows she’s seen him on the road up the hill. She had waved at him. He should have killed her, he should have.

It is not only an order, it is common sense. And yet he doesn’t.

Because of the Captain. Because of Steve.

It makes him angry and amplifies the need to lash out even more, because he, Steve, is in his head and influences him. Makes him do things he normally wouldn’t. He can’t get rid of the aggression without the risk of getting noticed. It’s a devils circle and he tumbled right into it with no plan on how to get out. This must be the reason he became so stupid, so careless. The reason why just one week after he arrived at the save house, Steve and the widow find him.

It hasn’t been a good day.

It hasn’t been a bad day.

Since he came here the slow trickle of memories in his head intensified. It’s not like the flicker of a candle anymore. It’s like a roaring inferno, taking a hold of his body, rendering him useless. Like visions they come bearing down on him. Sometimes they are pleasant. Usually they are not. They are gruesome, cruel and often he is the one inflicting pain. Just as often he is the one being hurt. On the days bad memories haunt him he lies on the floor or hangs over the sink throwing up.

Few days good memories come. They still hurt and they make him ache for his family, for candy cotton from Cony Island and Steve, but they are better.

Today is one of those days. He can feel the pressure of a nearing memory in his head and he prepares himself for the inevitable crash after. He fills a glass of water and puts it down next to him on the ground to ease the headache that will linger. A little black note book that he stole from a book store a few towns further with a pen, he puts down too. He’s learned that it helps to write down the memories he regained. It helps organize them and the more the book fills the more it eases his mind. Partly because he doesn’t want to lose the images of Brooklyn and the big cyclone and Steve, partly because he is afraid to lose the faces of the people he’s killed. They deserve to be remembered, and even when he can’t do anything to absolve himself anymore, that he can do. By now there are only five clear pages left.

He can feel the memory coming closer and closer, reaching with its claws. He feels dizzy and his aching knees give out under him. He lays on the rough concrete, the flesh arms pressed into his stomach in an unnatural angel. He turns himself onto his back and takes deep breaths to calm himself down.

Was this what Steve had felt like every time an asthma attack pressed his tiny lungs even further together?

His vision is getting blurry and finally blackness washes over him. Like a big wave it crashes over his head and pulls him down. Down, down into the poisonous ocean of his mind.

* * *

It felt exactly like the big wave crashing over him back when he visited his grandma and almost drowned swimming in the ocean, choking on salty water. She'd lived at the coast because the salty air was supposed to help with her rheumatism. He'd been really sad when she had to move to the other side of the country at first, but in the manner of a little boy, he'd forgotten about that fairly quickly as soon as he'd seen the big white house at the beach. His grandma was in the big white kitchen, backing apple pie, his favourite, and he decided that he was old enough to go swimming on his own now. Only he was four years old at the time and couldn't swim yet. Everything had been fine, until all of a sudden a huge wave had taken him by surprise, pulled him off his feet, pushed him underwater and whirled him around. He'd been in shock, couldn't breathe, couldn't think, was totally lost. He'd struggled, tried to push himself on the surface and inhale desperately needed air. He'd thought his life was over.

Of course it wasn't, but that's how he felt again when he realized it for the first time. That he was in love with his best friend. He couldn't say for the life of him how it had happened. Or when for that matter. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe he'd been doomed from the very beginning, the first time he'd laid eyes on him.

Which was on his first day of elementary school at the age of six. Bucky was very excited. He felt so grown up now and he already knew some of the kids. One of them was called Jimmy.

Jimmy was a very big, chubby boy, he could be mean and had a very bad temper, but Bucky knew better than to make him angry and they always had fun together. Of course they planned on sitting next to each other. So they entered the classroom and looked for free tables. The only problem was that there were only two seats available anymore. One in the back and one in the very first row. Jimmy made his way to the table in the corner at the end of the room and asked the scrawny, little boy sitting there to move. Not in a nice way, using twice as many swear words as any boy at that age should know. But the little kid refused to take a different seat. As Jimmy grew angrier by the second, Bucky was impressed. Every other more or less intelligent kid his size would have budged, but not this one. He simply stuck out his chin defiantly and replied: "No."

When Jimmy struck out to punch him in the little, pale face, Bucky couldn't help himself. He pushed Jimmy over, which surprised himself probably more than anyone else and before he knew it, he was in a fist fight with his best friend over some random boy. Only for about five seconds though, because the teacher came in and sent them both to the headmaster.

But it had been worth it, because since that day Bucky and the blond, stubborn kid called Steve had been inseparable. Where one was, was the other, there was no story about Bucky if it wasn't about Steve and no one ever ran into Steve without meeting Bucky too.

That's just how it was. Always had been. Always would have been if Bucky hadn’t gone and ruined it. If Bucky hadn’t gone and fallen in love with his best friend.

* * *

He gasps, eyes wide open and still unseeing, breathing erratic. Someone is touching his shoulder, someone is here. He has to go, he has to run they have found him. He will disappear, he will-

"Bucky."

The man looks down on him and at first, he doesn’t even recognize him. But he almost breathes the name out, looks at him with wide eyes. Blue as cornflowers his mind provides. He has never seen cornflowers. He doesn’t think.

It’s _Steve._

_“Bucky?” Steve says again, this time like a question. He is supposed to answer._

__

“No.”

__

“Misha.” A voice behind him says.

__

He gets up abruptly and almost bumps heads with Captain America. Quickly he turns to look at the widow. Natalia. She is watching him with wide eyes, registering every movement, every little give-away, every micro expression. She is a good reader of people, excellent, but he is better. And he is even better at making himself appear as a blank page, unreadable for everybody, even for her.

__

“No one has called me that in a long time.”

__

“Well it has been some time, though I wouldn’t say long. I’m not that old.” She answers, voice smooth and smiling, but she is smiling like the Mona Lisa. Impossible to tell what she is thinking.

__

He has stolen the picture, he thinks, the Mona Lisa. He remembers the picture, the smile, an excited voice telling him about it. But that doesn’t fit. He goes on missions alone, doesn’t work with anyone else, ever. It’s Steve’s voice, he thinks. Steve is crowding his head.

__

“Not as old as Steve anyway.”

__

Her gaze slips over to Steve and his eyes follow. Steve is still kneeling on the dusty grey floor starring at him through glassy eyes. He looks back at her.

__

“Or you.” She adds.

__

“How long has it been? 10 years? 15?”

__

“13 years and two months.”

__

“Ah, a lucky number. Figures I’d meet you now again.”

__

“You remember?”

__

“Not much. I remember the mission. I remember you leaving.”

__

“I couldn’t take you with me.”

__

“I wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

__

Steve shifts to stand up and he looks back at him again. He still wears the same expression on his face, one he thinks he’s seen before. Like a kicked puppy.

__

For some reason it awakens a vicious monster in his stomach and makes him want to lash out, to hurt. Steve is so carelessly, clearly obvious about his feelings, written all over him in capital letters, almost forcing them on him.

__

“I don’t remember you.” He says and sees Steve flinch lightly at his harsh tone.

__

He wishes he didn’t. It would be easier. Steve is a reminder of the past, the person he once was. Steve is a weakness.

__

Steve’s stance changes now, broad shoulders drawn back, and chin held up high. Fight in his eyes, fierce.

__

“I know that’s not true.”

__

He says nothing. Just stares him down and hopes he will convince him.

__

“Misha?” Natalia says again.

__

“Don’t call me that either. I am none of it. I am the asset. I follow orders. Things exactly as they were.”

__

“They’re not the same and you know they aren’t Bucky. You didn’t hurt me, you saved me, you- “Steve says and takes a step forward, but he interrupts him. Gets some distance between them again.

__

“Didn’t hurt you? Are you serious? I shot you, I beat you! And you let me! I could have killed you then and I will now if you stay. Go, both of you.” 

__

“Please, Bucky let me come with you - “

__

“Leave.”

__

“No.”

__

He feels trapped. He has no other choice. Slowly he lets his hand glide down to the holster with the gun hidden in his stealth uniform. He has to distract him.

__

"Don't take this choice from me Steve, not like they did. Please. Steve, let me go, I can't…I…"

__

Steve lets out a little sound like he just physically punched him and takes a step back. His eyes, so so blue, look at him, at Bucky, and his heart clenches uncomfortably.

__

"I'm so sorry..." he whispers, voice rough. "Yes, I'll leave. I'm sorry."

__

He, the Winter Soldier, Bucky is confused. On the one hand he knows it's Steve. Steve who he'd been in love with, Steve his best friend, Steve the unbelievably stubborn little punk, that doesn't give up. Steve who has followed him for weeks and come all across the country to see him. On the other hand, he knows that this is Steve, Steve who he had been in love with, Steve his best friend, Steve who would not want to hurt him.

__

And so he just stands there, feels like he’s frozen once again and unable to move as Steve walks away, head hanging down and steps heavy on the stairs.

__

Natalia graces him with one last look, then follows Steve.

__

He is alone in the basement again. His head is pounding so he gulps down the glass of water and finds himself wishing it were whiskey. But he can’t consciously recall ever drinking whiskey. He throws the glass against the concrete wall and it shatters. Then he stands there in the stuffy basement.

__

He doesn't know what he is supposed to do now, what just happened. He stays still on the same spot for a little while like he is in cryo freeze again or like he’s an old Greek statue. He has no idea what to do. No mission protocol could have prepared him for a situation like this.

__

Steve just left. Steve just left? It does make sense in a kind of vague way in his head. He knows Steve, remembers some of him, the boy with the soft hair and the even softer smile. He knows he was his Bucky. But he was the Winter Soldier for much longer and the Winter Soldier doesn’t trust anyone. The Winter Soldier is violent and cruel. He has to leave. They might say that they will leave him alone, but they still know where he is and he can’t take his chances, there is too much at stake. He packs up his few belongings again. He knows he owns too many things by now. It’s impractical, stupidly sentimental and it makes him feel human. He can’t get rid of them.

__

Slowly he slides up the winding stairs, almost completely silent. He can’t be sure that they left.

__

And just when he thinks it’s save, thinks they are gone and is about to enter the kitchen, he hears murmured voices. Pressed against the wall, he inches closer and strains his hearing.

__

“- over. You can’t keep going like this anymore, Steve.” The widow says.

__

“I don’t know what you mean.” He has to strain his ears to hear him and scoots closer.

__

“Don’t play stupid, it doesn’t suit you.”

__

“Many people would disagree, you know.”

__

“I do. But I trust my judgement more than theirs, I’m a good judge of character. I know you are not stupid and not as innocent as the public makes you out to be. You know exactly what you’re doing and what kind of risk you’re taking. You simply don’t care. You’re not stupid, you are reckless. Which brings us back to the topic.”

__

Silence.

__

“I take it back. You are stupid if you thought that could distract me. I’m a spy remember? I’m a professional in evasion. And you are the worst liar I have ever met.”

__

“What do you want me to say?”

"Oh you don't have to say anything to me."

"That's not what you're implying. "  
"Again, I'm not-"

"Stop Nat, just stop I'm not..." Steve sounds angry, dangerous even to anyone in this situation, anyone but the widow. But he cuts himself off as his voice breaks a little.  
"Steve." Natalia says again and this time it's soft and warm and not like anyting he's ever heard from her before. 

"I know, I'm sorry. I know what you mean. I'll be more careful."   
And then they just leave. They leave and they leave him alone.

__


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey:)  
> So, this is chapter two I guess.  
> Thanks much to all of you who have bothered to read it!  
> I don't really have much to say, but I hope you'll like it.

He is freezing, again. Five minutes in this piercing cold would kill anyone, but not him. It’s biting and harsh, he can feel ice crystals clinging to his cheeks and lashes. The wind is carding unforgivingly through his clothes. He should have gotten new ones. The soft, light fabric he’s wearing now may have been adequate to the warm south that is Louisiana, but it is definitely not appropriate for his new mission. The mission he had given himself after Steve and Natalia had left.

He sat on the brittle parquet floor of the house, hidden behind a wall and listened to the both of them talking. When they left, he followed without thinking. He wanted to chide them for not being careful enough, wanted to go to them and keep them save. But he knew, he was a menace himself and so he maintained a safe distance. Still, he stayed too close. Bucky tried to tell himself that he was following them because it was the only way he could make sure that they wouldn’t follow him and find him again. He was lying to himself.

The two of them returned to a dingy motel. Both of them entered room 12. It made him twitch and an uncomfortable feeling spread in his guts. Those were still new to him, feelings. At the same time, they were old as ever. He knew he had felt it before, knew exactly what it was too. Jealousy. He remembered that he had felt it a lot regarding Steve. He also knew that he was being stupid. They were sharing a room because it was saver. Two pairs of eyes to watch the entrances, two pairs of ears to hear trouble coming, two pairs of fists to fight. And anyway, Steve wasn’t Natalia’s type. He knew that for sure too. It didn’t help ease the uncomfortable knot though.

He counted the minutes that they stayed inside. At 5 minutes, an uncomfortable tingling nibbled at him. At 10, it got hurtful and then finally they exited trough the once white door. 17 minutes. Not long enough for anything other than packing the small bag each of them was carrying. And when they came outside, they looked perfectly put together. Which was good, because it meant no sign of struggle. No one had been waiting for them, Hydra hadn’t tried to attack them. He was lying to himself again.

Steve and Natalia got into a grey mini van and drove off at such an insanely fast speed that he could instantly tell Natalia was driving. She really knew how to keep tails from following her. But he was still the asset, still the soldier. He hotwired a car from the parking lot and sped after them.

When they had gotten into a private airplane, he slipped into the baggage compartment.

That’s where he is sitting now, curled behind a wooden box. If he has kept track of time correctly, which he cannot be sure of, they should be landing in New York soon. When he had been working for Hydra, it had been an advantage to lose hours, whole days. It had been desired. He could wait for a target, sitting in one position for a long time, without moving. He had never been noticed, perched on the same roof top for a whole week at times. Now it’s not beneficial, he has to stay alert. He will have to get out fast, before anyone can notice him. Which won’t be easy because even if he is used to his muscles being hardened and stiff from the cold, it still slows him down. He did it before, though. He can do it again.

As the rumbling of the turbines gets louder and louder around him, so loud that he almost can’t hear his thoughts, he begins feeling himself panic. Whenever this happens it’s like he flouts out of his body and can watch himself loosing the grip on self-control. He has to prevent that from happening. It’s not like he never experienced anything like this. When he had still worked for Hydra the memory wipes and the chair had stopped the flow of thought on a regular. Of course it isn’t like that now. They aren’t ripping his brains out again, he is still thinking, still present. But he can almost feel the restraints dig into his flesh wrist and scraping over the metal one, can almost taste the metallic ozone on his tongue. With the panic comes the adrenalin rushing into his bloodstream. He can’t allow himself to give into the urge and run. If he draws attention to himself now, they will find him. They cannot find him.

He cannot jump out of the airplane either. He knows that he would survive. It wouldn’t be the first time that he fell out of a fast-moving vehicle from a great height. But then he would lose Steve, and he would fail the mission. He has to protect Steve and he can’t fail his mission again, not again. So he presses his teeth together until he can taste the iron of blood and pushes his body into lock down. It’s risky. He hopes that he will be able to snap out of it when they land. If he does manage, his body will be even slower than it is from the cold anyway. But it isn’t like he has a choice. He is the asset, he is the soldier. He will carry through, he will finish the mission.

He must have lost a hold of time though, because according to his inner clock they should have reached New York already. It takes them at least another hour to approach landing.

When he notices that the noise has stopped, he gets up. The light that comes from the opening is almost blinding and silently, he inches forward. He cannot know when the staff will come unloading all these boxes. He is lucky, really, that Stark uses his private jet to transport whatever it is he transports in these wood boxes. Weapons, he assumes, if Tony Stark has followed Howard Stark, his father’s footsteps and overtaken the Stark empire. But it also means, that he is in danger of immediate exposure. He strains his ears and it’s only because of the enhancement that he hears the soft footsteps coming and able to hide just in time. He doubts that he would have gotten away pretending to be a civilian that got lost, even if he wasn’t in combat.

As soon has he gets out he starts looking for a car. He can’t avoid losing Steve for a short amount of time. But he can still get to him soon, before…

He doesn’t know before what, exactly. It’s like a feeling in his stomach that tells Bucky that he has to get to him as soon as possible. It irritates him that he has acted based on feelings more in one day than he has in seventy years probably. From one day to another he suddenly knows nothing for sure anymore. He realizes that the things he knew before, the things his handlers told him, weren’t true. It makes him feel like a wounded animal, his instincts telling him that offense is the best defence. While his memory has been recovering, he is still confused and all he thought was true isn’t. It’s not like he has another choice than to trust his feelings.

What he does know is that Steve and Natalia came in a Stark jet. He also knows that Tony Stark has a Tower here in Manhattan. They must be headed to him. He steals another car from the parking lot and drives.

He is just outside the city and leaves the car on the roadside when he realizes that he doesn’t actually know how to drive. He never had to drive for Hydra. He was a weapon he shouldn’t be able to move too quick on his own. It wasn’t something he needed to know how to do. His body had just taken over, without thinking he had known what to do, the ability to drive a car etched into his explicit memory, even though they were so different now than they were back then, when old Mr. O’Malley had allowed him to drive his old shabby ford around the neighbourhood sometimes.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about it.

He goes to the train station. At first, he stands in front of the screen where he has to tap onto little buttons to buy a ticket. But it doesn’t work and instead he taps his foot impatiently on to ground. For the third time now the automat tells him that he apparently aborted the purchase and he is just about to walk away when a little lady waiting in the queue behind him speaks up. “Can I help you, young man?” But she doesn’t wait for a response, just pushes at his shoulder, the right one, and starts typing away. “I didn’t get along with these things at first at all, you know how it is. I’m old. My grandson showed me how it works, he’s a very nice man.” While she babbles on he looks at her. Her skin is thin as a paper and wrinkled. She almost has no hair on her head, but the little she does is dyed bright red. It hits him that she was probably born around the same time as him. Maybe she is a bit younger, but she is still closer to his age than a lot of people who fit the looks. It makes him feel sick and makes him think about Dottie. It's the first time he remembers thinking about her and at the same he remembers thinking about her a lot. Dottie had been a girl he’d dated just after high school, the only one he could’ve seen himself with maybe. She’d found herself another fella though. And really, if he was being honest, there had only ever been Steve.

The old woman pushes the ticket in his hand now. “Thank you.” He says and starts to get out a few dollars. She pulls a face of distaste at that. “It’s fine, dear, don’t you worry about that. My grandson has been to the war too, I understand how it can be. You just take care of yourself, okay?” She smiles up to him. “Thank you.” He says again and turns away.

It takes him some time to get to Manhattan and the Stark tower, but when he arrives there at last, he starts looking for Steve’s apartment. He climbs onto the tallest building next to the skyscraper and makes his way up to the upper floors designed for housing. He peers into every flat and when he cannot find any trace of Steve, he waits and hopes to see him in one at some point. But the days pass, one, two, three days and there is still no sign of him. He has to admit to himself that Steve probably doesn’t live here. He has spotted Natalia though and he the avengers will have to have meetings sometime. So he waits.

He waits on the roof of the building for another three days when he finally sees Steve walking up to the tower. Even from the distance Bucky can tell doesn’t look good. His blond hair is am mess on his head and he has rings under his eyes so dark that they might as well be black eyes someone punched into him. He’s so beautiful it takes Bucky’s breath away. Unconsciously he leans down a bit more and if anyone is watching him, they know for certain what he is watching. Who he is watching. But he can’t take his eyes off of Steve. He tries. It’s not like Steve will notice him. With a quick stride and hunched shoulders, he walks briskly into the VIP entrance of the tower. And then he’s gone again.

Bucky waits another few hours on the roof, then decides to wait on the corner of the building under the trees. As he stands under the green crowns of leaves, he realizes he’s shaking. Maybe it’s because of Steve, because he finally saw him again. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t eaten in god knows how long. He decides that it’s probably a combination of both. While he waits, he eats a few of the energy bars he stole from a shop at the train station. They taste sweet. He liked sweet things once, especially chocolate. He used to trade some of his rations during the war for chocolate. Never his cigarettes though. He would really like to smoke one again. He’ll have to steal a pack later.

Two more hours pass when the silvery door slides silently open and Steve comes out, next to him a tall man. He’s talking frantically, waving around with his hands and Steve just stares to the ground. They walk down the street into his direction, so he takes a few steps back, hides behind the big trunks of the trees.

“You can’t storm out right away Steve! You need a plan, you need to slow down, you need to think for a second- “the man says. He recognizes him now, it’s the one with the wings from the helicarrier.

“We can’t slow down Sam! We have to get to them as fast as possible, or they’ll disappear. They will warn other bases we don’t even know about yet and we never will if we don’t start moving now.” Steve’s voice is quiet, but firm. He remembers a time when Steve would have exploded by now, to compensate his small body, to prove himself. That wasn’t necessary anymore.

“So, you’re gonna do – what exactly? Jump in there, head first, fists raised with no idea what you’re actually up against?” Sam sounds resigned, like he knows the answer already, but asks the question anyway. Bucky supposes if he knows Steve in the least, that’s how it is. (true)

“I know what I’m doing. I’m the man with the plan, remember?”

Sam snorts. “I realized after spending two days with you what a load of bullshit that actually is, Rogers.”

“Well I’m making it up as I go, that counts.” There is a smile in Steve’s voice.

They have passed him now and so he follows them, his cap pulled down into his face. This time he has glasses to disguise himself too. Still, it’s worrying really, that two grown men, soldiers and agents and supposedly trained to spot a shadow, don’t notice him. But he is the Winter Soldier, the asset. It shouldn’t surprise him.

They've been silent for a little while when Steve speaks up again. “Seriously, Sam, you don’t have to come with me. You have done so much already, I can’t ask you to- “

“Aw, shut up man, don’t do that. I want to, you know I do. I know that it’s the right thing to do, but going in without a plan – I just worry about you, you know?”

“I do. Thanks, Sam.”

“Sure thing, dude. Now. What has to be done before the big mission?”

“Not much, I guess. Nat said everything is ready, all we gotta do now is wait ‘til sunrise.” “Sunrise. Very dramatic.”

“Yeah. But it’s also in the morning when surveillance is the laxest.”

“Right, right, that too. Try to get some sleep then, okay big guy?”  

“I will.”

And with a hug their ways part. Sam steers straight ahead, while Steve takes a turn left. So Bucky walks left. They walk and before Bucky knows it, they cross the Brooklyn Bridge. The sleek grey skyscrapers turn into red brick houses around them and the longer they walk the more familiar the houses become. The neighbourhood isn’t like he remembers, not really, but it has been almost eighty years. He supposes that he can’t expect home to be the same when he isn’t either. Then Steve walks up to a house and it’s like a punch in the face. It’s their old house. Their old red brick house, with their old creaky fire escape and their old ratty apartment. While Steve fondles with his keys, he makes himself walk ahead. When he’s gone, he climbs up on the next building. He thinks a girl they had been friends with had lived here. Hester or something.

He stays up there the whole night watching Steve. Despite promising Sam to get some rest, he doesn’t go to sleep. Bucky can see him pacing in the living room that is the kitchen and dining room at the same time, before finally settling down at the desk and taking out his sketching book. It’s such a familiar sight, that it sends a spark through his spine. Even though Steve looks so different now, even though Bucky has been brainwashed, erased and isn’t the same Bucky anymore, even though they are seventy years in the future, Steve looks still the same hunched over a piece of paper, chewing on his lips in concentration.

But Steve should get some rest. He looks like he hasn’t seen an actual bed in weeks and if they really are going on a mission against Hydra in the early morning, he will need his strength. It’s not like he can do anything to make him sleep though. Even if he had his tranquilizer gun with him, he couldn’t possibly shoot Steve. Maybe it would get him some rest, the drugs wouldn’t affect him for more than three hours max. but he cannot let anyone know that he’s here. And they would know.

So he has no other choice but to watch Steve all night and makes sure that he’s save, until he puts on his suit in the morning and gets into a sleek car, that drives him away.

Bucky follows.


End file.
